


Adieu in A Minor

by sad_bi_cowboy



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Ballet, Dancing, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Hannibal Flash Fic #008, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal and Bedelia in Paris, Hurt, Image Prompt, Introspection, Multi, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29915601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sad_bi_cowboy/pseuds/sad_bi_cowboy
Summary: Only she can see it slowly coming undone at the seams, revealing to the broken beast of the man beneath it.It shows itself in small ways at first. His hackles rise easily when she baits him with taunts about the man and child he left in Baltimore. She feels him twitch with his dreams when in bed next to her. Occasionally she hears a mumbled Will when he does. He has the slightest of bags under his eyes, an indication of less than restful sleep. The beast only gets more overt as the days tick by.~~~~~~Bedelia considers Hannibal as they settle in Paris. She gains more insights than she expects.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34
Collections: Hannibal Flash Fic #008





	Adieu in A Minor

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to this album while writing this, as well as the the soundtrack from Haunting of Bly Manor for some extra feelings  
> https://open.spotify.com/album/3kzo3QXqSjQ47lXTA6ejhf?si=Qi6_6vaPSseNfnXpJ4H7OA

It’s been three months since they have fled to Europe and one since they have settled themselves into a penthouse apartment that she does not question the sudden vacancy of. They have a small balcony in one of their sitting rooms that overlooks a quiet side street of Paris, although when the doors are thrown open the bustling sounds of the city still filter in with clarity. Sometimes, when she is alone in the place, she’ll fill the bath and lay in it with all the windows and doors open and let the sound wash over her. Sometimes, it is enough to make her almost forget why she is here in the first place. 

Almost. It’s never enough to truly forget the man who has brought her here. 

It has been three months since Hannibal Lecter gutted Will Graham in his Baltimore kitchen. Three months since he had shown up at her house in the middle of the night, soaked to the bone, covered in blood, and eyes filled with a primal sorrow. Bedelia had been too shocked to refuse him. She had simply sutured his skin closed and placed ice across the deep bruises covering his shoulders and back. She hadn’t been able to do anything about the rip in his heart, however. 

She had put up no protests when he had pulled up two tickets to Europe out of the blue and said they would be leaving within the next few hours. The tickets were in two fake names, and were accompanied by matching fake IDs. The IDs had been photos of the two of them. Bedelia had not been surprised to learn that Hannibal had factored her into his plans, one way or the other. 

So here they are in Paris, playing the roles of an art preservationist and his American artist of a wife. Hannibal has managed to finagle himself an adjunct lecturer at a university, which for the time being has satiated his wont to peacock himself before the general public. She doesn’t know if it’s a show of power or a newfound recklessness on his part that has him leaving her alone for the majority of the day, but whichever way it is, they both know that she won’t leave.

She’s not sure if it’s out of spite, pity, or a sudden disregard for her own safety that she stays. She’s not sure that she cares much for the details. 

She spends her days alone in the apartment, mostly. She sketches some to keep up her façade and to curtail any questions should they have company. Sometimes she pops the cork on one of their most expensive bottles of wine and day drinks until she’s pleasantly loose and drowsy, letting the soft opera playing on the record player lull her into a stupor. Other days, when she is feeling particularly trapped, she goes around the city, sitting in various coffee shops and benches along her way. She watches the people passing her by like reels of film, as if they are in a universe that she is observing from her own. On these days she likes to bring home more of their expensive wine and a selection of equally expensive cheeses and breads. She doesn’t leave Paris.

Hannibal enjoys her company in the way a huntsman enjoys the company of his trophies. He shows her off at exhibit openings and galas, reveling in the glint of the wedding bands on their left ring fingers as he does so. He downright  _ preens  _ whenever a random colleague compliments - or, in a few cases, propositions - them, right before he politely declines with some faintly veiled quip about his not liking to share. He makes good on his word when they eventually return to the apartment, fucking her until she screams with pleasure and digs her nails into whatever flesh happens to be near her hands; his shoulders, back, hips, and biceps are all littered with half-moon bruises and raised, red lines. This all is another elaborate stitch in his Person-Suit. 

Only she can see it slowly coming undone at the seams, revealing to the broken beast of the man beneath it. 

It shows itself in small ways at first. His hackles rise easily when she baits him with taunts about the man and child he left in Baltimore. She feels him twitch with his dreams when in bed next to her. Occasionally she hears a mumbled  _ Will _ when he does. He has the slightest of bags under his eyes, an indication of less than restful sleep. The beast only gets more overt as the days tick by. 

She catches him drawing Will Graham into a Botticelli one day, his features soft and rounded and looking to all the world like a man in a deep, deep love. He likes to hum to himself as he moves about the kitchen. A vase of flowers always sits fresh on their windowsill. 

The beast shows his more violent side as well. He comes home covered in blood one day. Bedelia does not ask, only lets him strip down and get in the bath to wash it all away. She finds their stores of whisky depleting faster than they should be. He likes to be tied to their bed so he can fight his bonds, creating deep bruises that he takes pleasure in displaying - after all, it would be rude to ask about them. He cries out Will’s name when she fucks him for the first time. 

Still, it takes three months of living in Paris for Bedelia to truly witness how much Hannibal Lecter had been taken apart at the seams by Will Graham. 

It is early on a Saturday morning when she does. She lays loose-limbed and spread out on their bed with the sheets haphazardly thrown across her body. Hannibal has long since disappeared, first into their en suite to shower and then out into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She can’t hear anything now but the record player and the rain hitting the windows, meaning that he has probably settled down to sketch or read as he usually does in his free time. 

Eventually, she finds it in her to sit up, moaning softly as she does so when muscles stretch and pull uncomfortably. She grimaces as some sections of the sheet stick to her when she stands to finally shower herself. Bedelia has never been fond of the post-coital clean up. 

After she finishes in the bathroom, she wraps herself in her long black robe and leaves their bedroom, wondering what Hannibal has prepared for them this morning. It turns out to be some fruits, simple bread and butter, and freshly brewed coffee. Hannibal himself is nowhere to be found. Not in their dining room, study, or sitting room, which mildly surprises Bedelia. She has not heard him leave (although with Hannibal that does not mean much), but his pencils sit untouched on his desk in the study and the novel he is working on remains on his side table in their living room. She supposes he is in what she has taken to calling their “sun room,” on account of its two massive skylights. Its door is closed when she stops outside of it, the faint sounds of piano filtering through. She opens the door quietly, not knowing what to expect behind it. 

The room itself is empty, but the French doors to the balcony are open. The rain is tapping on the stone of the balcony and the glass of the skylights. The record player is on, the mournful croon of a piano filling the air with a melancholy so thick Bedelia can almost breathe it in. She creeps quietly around the couch to get a full view of the balcony, stopping dead in her tracks as Hannibal’s figure comes into view. 

He stands on his tip toes, legs straight and long and his torso curving back in an elegant arch. One arm extends in a smooth line from his chest and the other rests on the air near his left hip, over the waistband of the pants he wears. His eyes are softly closed. He holds himself with the effortless strength of the classically trained. The cadence of the piano changes and he changes positions with it, flowing into one and then the other with careful precision and grace. He’s always had a dancer’s frame, with long legs and wide shoulders and strong arms, but it is a sight to see it in action.

Bedelia immediately recalls a moment from years ago, when she and Hannibal had been at some convention or other. After some rare male bravado had led him to slightly over indulging one night, he had revealed to her some of his life in Paris as a young boy. He had taken ballet lessons in his youth, so it had seemed only natural that his uncle would have enrolled him in classes when he had taken Hannibal in. 

As he moves and bends, it’s not hard for her to replace the man in front of her with a younger version of himself. He is long and lean, a few ribs showing through his skin as he dances. His stomach is toned and the point of his hip bones cast shadows on his lower abdomen. His skin is smooth, unmarred by the scars that litter his body in the present day. This Hannibal dances to forget. Her Hannibal dances to remember. 

She knows that he is aware of her presence as she stands watching him. What kind of a predator would he be if he wasn’t? She can feel his resignation as the music track changes yet again. Hannibal knows she has long since seen under his Person-Suit, quite literally. At this point, what’s a dance between the two of them?

And so she watches him, leaning on the arm of the couch as he takes himself through a routine known only to him and his imagined Will Graham. His torso shines with sweat and rain, with his hair plastered to his head and rivulets of water falling onto his broad shoulders. They both pretend she cannot see the extra shine on his cheeks. Hannibal bends back in a deep arch, his exposed Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows. He pulls himself back up to his full height and lets his eyes open. They make eye contact.

The visceral hurt she sees there makes her feel flayed open to the bone. This is a private ritual that she feels that she should not see. Hannibal has always been so careful with his immaculately crafted veneer that to see the depth of his emotions like this is more unsettling than his usual emotional detachment. In that moment she knows that if Hannibal Lecter has any regrets, his gutting of Will Graham and their daughter ranks at the top of the undoubtedly short list. 

Hannibal’s dance turns him away from her in the next second. Bedelia sees droplets of water flung from his hair to speckle the wooden floor and the rug. She quietly turns on her heel and leaves the room, letting the door close quietly behind her. The piano sings softly in A-Minor from behind her. She knows it sings for Hannibal’s lost love. It sings for his Will Graham. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm literally so happy about this fic it's unreal. I've never written in Bedelia's pov before and I had a great time with it. Hopefully I can write more from her in the future!


End file.
